Chapter Twelve
Hugh drifted back to consciousness. For a long time, he was too weary to open his eyes. Why am I so tired? Memory escaped him; he knew he was exhausted, but not why.
Finally, he mustered the energy to lift his eyelids.
He was in his own bed, in his own room. His father sat on a stool alongside the bed, his face weary and unshaven. Sunlight streamed through the open window. The shadows it cast told Hugh that it was late afternoon.
Memory grudgingly returned. Nighttime. His father’s work chamber. Aleyn.
“What happened?” Hugh whispered. His voice was hoarse, his throat painfully raw. I’ve been screaming again.
His father’s head jerked up. “Hugh!” He pushed hastily off his stool and leaned over the bed and gathered Hugh in his arms as if he were a child again. “Son . . . O
